Mushing in Ohio: mud and diligence

Training a team of sled dogs is not an easy task. It is often chaotic. It requires dedication and is back-breaking and messy. On a recent training run, I kept smelling dog poop. I suspected it was on one of the dog's harnesses or tug lines - something that happens frequently - but every time I checked when we were stopped, I saw nothing. Imagine my surprise when I realized, on finishing the run, that the glob of doggy doo-doo was in my hair! It had flown off the back tire of the four wheeler and flipped up onto my head!

It requires sacrifice. Inevitably, every year, there are nights when, after a long day at work, the last thing I want to do is trade in my heels for Muck Boots and head out into inclement weather for several hours in the night. But as I pass people snug in their houses watching reruns of Seinfeld for the umteenth time, I look up at the stars overhead, or see a pair of glowing eyes watching me from a thicket of trees, and I know where I am is better and that there's no place I'd rather be.

Training a team of sled dogs in northeast Ohio certainly has its challenges. When other mushers are on sleds, I am still on the four wheeler at Christmastime this year. While there hasn't been any snow in northeast Ohio this winter, there has been no shortage of moisture. Mud has become like my second skin. The dog's harnesses are so muddy when we return from training runs that they can practically stand up on their own. I'm so sick of mud, I could scream.

This season has brought a slew of unforeseen challenges in addition to the normal challenges of training a team in Ohio. For one, in October, when training runs are typically kicking into high gear, I was focused on trying to save Mojo and Feist, my two pups who died of parvo. It was emotionally and financially draining, and my training regimen and pocket book quickly became depleted. It seems I have played catch up in both areas ever since.

Additionally, a year and a half ago, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disorder. Without going into too many boring details, there have been moments this season when I honestly felt my body wasn't going to allow me to do what I needed to do to train up the dogs. I pride myself on having high tolerance for pain, and the ability to function well even with a lack of sleep or in pain and around chaos. But this season, some days have been practically debilitating.

I have done what I could, trying to take things in stride. As John Lennon said, life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. It is a rookie mistake to set out at the beginning of a season thinking race plans are set in stone. Whenever living creatures are involved, there are always unknown variables, and first and foremost, mushers are taught to deal with adversity and always be prepared with Plan B. At one point, I resigned to potentially sit this year out race-wise.

Plans are fluid. Since I started mushing nine years ago, I have always attended the Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Classic. Unfortunately, because life happens, this will be the first year we will not be at that race since I started this sport. I am behind on training miles with where I would normally be at this time of the year, and rather than pushing the dogs, I have chosen to forego this favorite race in favor of a new race happening at the end of  January: The IronLine Sled Dog Race. This will give us more time for training runs and conditioning.

As Christmas Eve rounds the corner and we settle in with family, friends gifts and merriment, it is 55 degrees and raining here in northeast Ohio. More moisture. More mud. Doesn't feel much like Christmas. So I must rely on pictures to help me remember.

Merry Christmas - may the season bring peace and lots of doggy howls (and not doggy doo-doo).

A Christmas Story from Diamond Dogs Ranch

My sled runners sound like the hull of a ship parting cold water. At least that's what they remind me of. They creak rhythmically as they part the snow, matching the cadence of the dogs' jingling collars. We fly down the side of County Road 407 and turn sharply into the woods - the first few miles of our 41 are already behind us.

The Tahquamenon Country Sled Dog Race is always our first race of the season, and our first test of four months of training. While children anticipate Kriss Kringle's jovial ride down their chimneys, I  anxiously await the first jovial ride on the race runners shortly after, on January 4.  

In preparation for race time, I have been busily preparing many things which made me reflect on all the things required to be a musher besides balance on the runners. Here is a list of occupational vocations mushing has forced me to wrestle with. 

Seamstress 

To tackle these last couple weeks of training, and because I have been unable to buy dog booties from my normal supplier in the size I need, I launched into bootie-making, with a lot of help from my mom. I obtained a simple pattern from my mushing friend, Jenn, and set out to make a few dozen booties. How hard could it be, right? 

Future dog booties

Mom sewing booties while I cut them

Making booties ended up being a lot more time consuming and labor-intensive than I originally anticipated. Because of several mishaps with my mother's ancient Singer sewing machine, circa 1962, making one bootie took about two hours. The bobbin inside the machine refused to thread properly.

After several unsuccessful attempts at threading, mom, obviously frustrated with the endeavor, tossed the stubborn bobbin aside with an exasperated sigh.

"But mom," I reasoned. "Think of all the memories we are making."

"All this is making me is p*#sed off!" mom said with a laugh.

Finally, we achieved the end result.

The finished product

One down, 35 to go!

Carpenter

Because my former dog-hauling trailer didn't have tires that could sufficiently carry the weight of dog boxes and dogs to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and back without several hundred dollars in repairs, flat tires and tow trucks in October, I recently invested in a larger, more sturdy trailer for the dogs.

The new-to-me trailer in the process of being converted into dog trailer

Anyone unfamiliar with how sled dogs travel to races? This is how. Each dog has a box which mushers typically call "holes." This trailer will be an "eight hole box" - meaning it will comfortably carry 8 dogs safely in cozy little traveling dog houses.

The beginnings of two new boxes, thanks to my friend Greg for helping!

There are so many vocations mushing has forced me to tackle in life: mechanic (trouble-shooting four wheeler problems is a common mushing conundrum); dietitian (balancing proper nutrition for these high-octane beasts is a challenge!); pseudo veterinarian (administering vaccinations, vitamins, medications); guide (navigating 40 miles of trail and having a good trail sense isn't for everyone).

But the most important thing my dogs have taught me is to be prepared for anything, and to have perseverance in the face of adversity. And that leads me to the other vocation mushing has brought to me: story teller.

Sit down, grab a cup of Christmas hot cocoa, and listen to a story about adversity.

The other day during a training run, I took a different trail than normal and came head on with a fairly large downed tree across the middle of the trail. There was a steep drop to my left and a bog to my right; the tree was long and very thick. There was no going over or around it. And the trail was narrow - too narrow to simply turn the team of dogs around.

I had no choice but to unhook the team from the four wheeler, hook them to the tree, turn the four wheeler around by driving over saplings and other thicket, and rehook the team.

This was only eight miles into a 30 mile run. Translation: the dogs were still quite amped!

Unhooking an entire gangline of nine "hot" dogs from a four wheeler while still keeping them on the gangline is a delicate maneuver. A black lab pulling its owner down the sidewalk on a leash has nothing on a team of sled dogs! I unhooked 6 of 9 tuglines (what the dogs pull with) so they couldn't get the leverage to drag me down the trail; they were connected to the gangline by only their necklines. I grabbed an extra tugline I had stowed in the four wheeler for emergencies and wrapped it around the tree; then I secured the gangline to this rope. Once this was done, I had the four wheeler turned around and backed up to the wheel dogs in no time. Easy peasy....

But when I unhooked the line from the tree, the dogs became excited and pulled me down hard onto my butt, dragging me a good 10 feet down the trail in the mud before I managed to stop the team.

Whoever invented Gortex® is a God.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa!!" I yelled.

Ruffian, my inquisitive and ever-in-tune white lead dog turned to look at me, head cocked to one side slightly. Something was amiss with mom, she could tell.

The team on the trail. Ruffian (left) and her sister, Big Brown (right) in lead

I had a few seconds. In the time it took her to process that, I quickly pulled the dogs back and slipped the gangline back into the carabiner on the four wheeler. Now they were reattached to the 500 pound machine with brakes. Whew! I quickly reattached all of their tuglines, and away we went!

I know many people who do not have the patience or tolerance to sort through a situation like that. Making critical decisions quickly, calmly and efficiently is a life skill I largely attribute to mushing.

We leave shortly for our first race. As I wrap up this post, Christmas is officially over. In the last couple days, the dogs and I have logged over 50 miles. This is always our last strenuous training weekend before our first race.

And there, to my team I will give a whistle, and away they will fly like the down of a thistle. And you'll hear us exclaim as we drive out of sight, "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

Blur

I blink, and it's December.

Days have become a blur of routine: thawing meat for the dogs, feeding, scooping, miles behind my team, repeat.

Ever since I started preparing to move here, I've felt such a strong urge to rid myself of "stuff." Though all I packed to come to this quaint, 16x20 cabin in the northwoods fit in a 5x8 Uhaul trailer, I find I am still compelled to lighten my load even more. There are so few things that mean much to me anymore, and I find myself full of gratitude for the simple things I have. Friday brought a cord of kiln-dried hardwood, some propane, and some groceries. And I am gracious.

It occurs to me that this is the quintessential antithesis of December in America.

If I am honest, I haven't been thinking too much of Christmas. Except when I have to drive to town for groceries or other supplies. Then the Christmas music assaults my senses.

Perhaps the intended purpose of Christmas music is to remind us, as we stroll down aisles with shopping carts, to buy stuff.

But Christmas music reminds me of home.

Home isn't necessarily a place on a map for me.

Home is a place in my heart where the people I love reside. Some of those people live in Ohio. Some of those people live in Michigan. Some of those people live in other places altogether.

It was January when my grandmother died.

She had spent her last birthday, which also happened to be Christmas, in the hospital. She was dying. We all knew it.

I went to see her one snowy day in December. She lay in that hospital bed, small, frail, full of angles and hollow spaces where once there were curves and life. Her skin was like paper.

I watched her breathe: shallowly, slowly, half expecting the next breath not to come. But after long pause, the course draw of her inhale made its way back.

Her eyes fluttered lightly in sleep. What did she dream about, there at the end of her life? On the threshold of death, did she dream of my grandfather? Did she dream of driving? She never had driven in life. Was she haunted on her death bed by the dreams unfulfilled in life?

Snow fell as we drove to the cemetery near her house. Her pale blue casket was suspended above the open grave, and we gathered around it that January day. My sisters, aunts, uncles, parents and cousins had all turned out for the ceremony. I watched my aunt sob as the pastor said The Lord's Prayer, the skin on her hands like paper.

Days flow. Life is a blur. Suddenly we're dreaming of the things we never did, the things we never took the time - or the chances - to do. Like being honest with our loved ones. Like being honest with ourselves.

Don't wait. Things don't matter. What lives in our hearts - those things that make us swoon and sob and smile - those things matter.

The poet Ryokan said,

"We meet only to part,
Coming and going like white clouds,
Leaving traces so faint
Hardly a soul notices."

How will you spend your days? Will you leave a trace?

Give thanks this day....

The end of the year is a natural time, it seems, for reflection and hope. This year has brought so many things: some sad, like losing my job in September; but more blessings. In fact, the frugality that came with losing my job has taught more lessons that I am thankful for, because being frugal builds one of the best qualities: character.

I am thankful for family: my kiddos, Sophie and Elise.

My girls

 I am thankful for family who have helped me, mentored me and supported me in various forms along the way in this journey - in dogs and in life (even when some of them thought I was nuts regarding the dog part!). There are far too many to name, but I'd be remiss if I didn't mention my parents, Chris, and a handful of very best friends who are like family. I am thankful for having such a beautiful place to call home. I am thankful for my amazing canine family, the beautiful, hard-bodied athletes as well as the half breed mutts who call this place a sanctuary of love. I am thankful for Tak's beautiful, well-bred puppies this past July.

Tak and her sweet pups this past August

I am thankful for the chance to train up in the Upper Peninsula - the land I love - with my Michigan family.

  
I am thankful for good friends, so many friends near and far who I think about daily even though they may be far away; those who have mentored me, and those who have listened; those who have been there and who have accepted me for exactly what I am. I am thankful for the random strangers who have offered a word of encouragement in emails from all over the country.

My good friend and mentor, Jodi Bailey and me at the Midwest Mushing Symposium this past October

I am thankful for the bounty God and nature provide to feed my family and my dogs and animals. I am thankful for my beautiful flock of hens who provide such awesome eggs for our family daily, and Ninja the rooster who is good at being pretty.

 I am thankful for the large pieces of well-seasoned hardwood that heats our home.

I am thankful for my education, and my muse. I am thankful for my freedom, and all of those who keep it safe. I am especially thankful for music.

I am thankful, especially, for the handful of sponsors who have helped make this season possible. And, if you've read this far, I am thankful for you too.


Merry Christmas and, as always...

Crisp morning and fushia sunset in the tundra

"Silence is a source of great strength.” Lao Tzu


The Mackinaw Bridge that connects lower Michigan to the Upper Peninsula

The snow squeaks under my boots as I head outside. The sun is bright. It is six degrees at the 45th parallel: the half way point between the equator and the North Pole. The Toyota creaks and groans as I drive up Coyote Run. I am heading to Mackinaw City to pick up Sophie's Christmas present: her very own dog sled.

My friends, Karla and Dan, at Trails End Kennel responded to an S.O.S. that I was looking for a dogsled for Sophie for Christmas. I am very thankful.

On the way there, Big Brown sleeps in the cab of the truck with me. She's pretty spoiled, my sweet BB - "BB gun" as my kids affectionately call her.



After a quick chat with Dan, we're on our way back down to the 45th parallel.


How we roll: my dog box, which I built by myself, can hold six to eight dogs. Sleds, which weigh practically nothing, sit on top.

And I get ready to find my "sled legs" once again.

I don't know about other mushers, but I always get butterflies in my stomach before the first go of the season on the runners. And I've heard horror stories about running out of Joann's driveway. The sharp 90 degree left onto a plowed road with a hot team of dogs can be deadly.

The butterflies leap into my throat.

Larry goes out before me with a team of 10.



As I head out, two of the five females I have hooked up start to fight. One is BB. She's fighting with her litter mate, Rags. Forgotten are the days of sharing a womb; now the girls are blood thirsty. I stop and Joann helps to get the two separated.

Butterflies...

Then I'm at the corner and I make the turn. I make the turn! Only, something happens. I'm going fast slightly downhill on a plowed road. My drag mat flaps around haphazardly, and when I step foot on it, I hit a bump in the road simultaneously and...just that quick, I'm over. And over. Until I'm dragged upside down, runners in the sky, down the road.

I lost my team one time, in 2006. I have never let go again. I will never let go. This is the first rule (really probably the only rule) in mushing: NEVER let go. Ever. No matter what.

Luckily my agility comes right back to me and I stop the team and right the sled as quickly as it happens. I chuckle to myself picturing sled runners in the sky!

The rest of the 15 mile run is absolutely breathtaking and pristine. The dogs make good time on sections of trail that are still rough going from all the newly fallen snow. The sunset puts on quite a show.



As we run, I think about last September - that it's only been three and a half months since I fought for life. I very seriously thought after my hospitalization I would not be here, today, doing the thing I love most in the world. And here I am.

I return in the dark without a headlamp, it's that clear and beautiful. I feel alive again. The hours of training have paid off with the dogs. They run flawlessly, effortlessly through the tundra.



As I prepare dinner for the dogs, Gwennie gives me a kiss. Larry made the best spaghetti dinner and we wolf down the carbs like the dogs wolf down their kibble. After dinner, Ana poses with her best buddy, Jake, in front of the Fortier's Christmas tree so I can snap some shots of her.


A five-year-old Ana and her Border Collie, Jake

Merry Christmas. What I want for Christmas is the peace I feel when I'm on the runners, at all times. I savor that peace, when everything is blanketed in white and the only sound is the sound of the dogs' breath and the quiet jingling of their collars.

May you know peace. May you know how to get back up on the runners. May you know the butterfly excitement of the first run of the season. May you know the unconditional kisses of best friends. May you know peace.